Pas de Deux
by Vividus
Summary: -Written for The Order of the Knights of Santiago's November Challenge- His hands remained tight around the pickaxe as he contemplated his fate, wordlessly yelling into the wind, challenging the world to strike him down and end his suffering.
1. Rain

Mmkay. This is written for the November Challenge at The Order of the Knights of Santiago, owned by the weirdo, Mexicano27. :D The theme used here is _rain_. The ballet is "The Legend of Love."

Disclaimer: I don't own the libretto for The Legend of Love. The music is by Arif Melnikov and the ballet was choreographed by Yuri Grigorovich in 1961. The libretto is by Nazim Khikmet.

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_Drip._

Everyday was torture. He could barely live without her while he struggled to overcome his weakness. No one knew what it is; they only knew that it crippled him beyond belief, impaired his ability to concentrate on his task, stopped him from ever being whole again. If only they knew that it was Shryin, his love, who was his weakness. She was miles away, enjoying her life without him, a poor artist who had only hindered her ability to give to the world that shunned him.

His hands tightened on his pickaxe as he thought of his Princess's sister, the Queen, Mekhmeneh Bahnu. She was the cause of all his grief. Her cunning mind, jealous fits, everything she did was to spite him. She claimed to have feelings for him, yet she tore his heart into pieces when she made him choose. The people or love.

He felt the rain coming down on him, bringing him soothing feelings along with it. He smashed his pickaxe into the rock, calming himself with the thought of the villagers. He stopped and rested for a moment and craned his neck, trying to catch sight of the villagers, undoubtedly ecstatic at the light precipitation.

He saw them as he moved back, his pickaxe dropped onto the hard, stone ground of the unforgiving mountain. They leaped with joy, danced with superhuman abilities, as if the rain and joy brought them to the full extent of their powers.

He scowled again as he picked up his tool and raised it high above his head, again angry with his fate. Why was it _he_ was doomed to serve his people, to be away from the only one he had ever truly cared about?

His hands curled around the handle, forcing the wood into his skin, blissfully distracting him from the pain in his chest. He hated how his heart constantly toyed with him, whole one day, battered the next. Was this his future? Was he really fated to spend his lifetime yearning for the one person he couldn't have, hoping he could hear her say his name, and wishing for her to be with him for an instant, just to relieve his pain?

_Drop._

He'd finish this job one day. It would _not_ be his life. He wouldn't allow it. He only wanted to spend his life with Shyrin, away from this horrid mountain, this horrid pickaxe, this horrid rain, this horrid life. He refused to let this one task consume him, take over him, the way jealously took over Mekhmeneh Bahnu when she had seen Shryin.

It was pouring now. He hated it. The villages were overjoyed, he knew, grateful for a slight pause from the endless drought that plagued them. Even with their joy, he could not stop from frowning. The constant slamming of the rain against the ground echoed with the sound of his heart ripping itself into millions of pieces, smashing itself against the rocks and his pickaxe, his tool, his only companion.

_Drip._

The rain had stopped. Only the slight drips of water, falling off of the mountain peaks, remained. His hands remained tight around the pickaxe as he contemplated his fate, wordlessly yelling into the wind, challenging the world to strike him down and end his suffering.

There was no answer. Ferkhad stared blankly into the sky, until he remembered his duty to this world in this life and picked up his pickaxe, falling back into routine as he tried to forget about how the rain sounded like how his heart felt—torn and abandoned by the world that had decided to let him suffer without any way to escape.

_Drop._

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_-review whores-


	2. Death

Theme number two: Death. This is to the ballet, Glass Heart. I don't know who made up the libretto or whatever, unfortunately. Glass Heart premiered at the Mariinsky Theatre on March 13, 2008.

Disclaimer: I don't own Glass Heart. The choreography is by Kirill Simonov, while the music is by Alexander von Zemlinsky.

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He stopped pacing for a moment, only to remind himself that she is married. Even so, he couldn't forget the way she looked, the way she moved, the way she looked at him. He started walking again, before he finally plopped into a chair, drained. He plucked a rose from the vase next to him, interested in its dark red color.

He stared at the rose never blinking, never questioning it's similarity to her. He twisted it between his fingers, recalling the dreams of her, dancing with an unearthly beauty that started old, familiar feelings.

He glanced at the cup, filled to the brim with red wine, beautiful because she had left it for him. He didn't know who she had given it to him in plain sight of her husband, but didn't care to ask himself why, only cared to remember that it was from her.

He knew that she was dangerously, unhealthily, addictive. He couldn't stop his attraction to her. If she wished, he would guide her through Hell, where he would surely end up for loving a married woman. But Alma? That gorgeous, alluring goddess? Perhaps it was a sin to be so lovely, but surely she would be spared for her divine grace.

Alexander closed his eyes for a moment, taking his time to cherish his memories of Alma. Her soft, red hair, deep blue eyes, sensual curves… He shook his head, trying to wake up. It wasn't healthy. She was married, and he was simply there. She wouldn't want him, not with the way Gustav looked at her, that lucky bastard. He looked at her in the same way, yet she did not want him. She ignored his feelings, his wealth, his everything, and went with Gustav.

His mind was clouded, controlled by her. He couldn't get her out of his head. No matter how hard he tried, she was there, directing his thoughts, taking over him, bit by bit. He couldn't stop her. Oh, but he wanted her in his mind, wanted her to see how he felt. He wished she knew. But she didn't. He felt helpless, trapped by his love for her,

He looked at the goblet sitting beside him. It was intricately designed, made of expensive metal. He picked it up. Maybe, just maybe, she knew what he felt. Maybe, just maybe, she felt the same way. His eyes stayed glued to the goblet; he was powerless, unable to tear his gaze from the goblet which she had touched, which she had given to him. In his eyes, it was worth more than the Holy Grail, absolutely priceless.

He extended one arm, and as he did so, finally noticed his surroundings. Bed to the left, near the window, with the door to the right, as was the table. He took little notice of the furniture, however, and focused on the wine. He stared at it, wishing, hoping with all his heart that it was just a dream, that Alma was his. He took a sip. It wasn't a dream, but he'd never be able to know that. He'd never be able to see Alma again, never be able to curse at Gustav, never be able to hear her voice say his name. He'd never be able to know anything ever again. Never.

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-review whores again-


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